


Second Chances

by MissKitsune08



Series: The Freak Fleet [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Imperial Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKitsune08/pseuds/MissKitsune08
Summary: After Konstantine’s death, Grand Admiral Thrawn decides to integrate ISD Relentless, Konstantine’s former flagship, into the Seventh Fleet, giving an opportunity to Commander Dorja to redeem himself. Gen. Mix of Canon and Legends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the Thrawn novel, therefore using the old Imperial Navy rank system (in summary, leaving out a couple of ranks): Ensign -> Lieutenant -> Lieutenant Commander -> Commander -> Captain -> Vice Admiral -> Admiral -> Fleet Admiral -> Grand Admiral

Commander Dorja had been summoned to Grand Admiral Thrawn’s office to explain his command decisions in person after the ISD _Relentless’s_ bridge had been damaged during the battle of Atollon; after the Captain had been incapacitated, as the highest ranking officer at the bridge, it had been Dorja who assumed the role of the acting captain.

Explaining himself to the icy blue alien would have been humiliating enough for a pure-blooded Coruscanti like him, however he had not been the only one in the room with Thrawn. At each side of the Grand Admiral’s table there were standing Thrawn’s most loyal henchmen: Captain Pellaeon of Corellia on the right, Commander Riza of a backwater world in the Outer Rim on the left.

“Do you stand by your decisions, Commander Dorja?” The Grand Admiral asked calmly in a detached tone, his expression partially hidden by the steepled hands in front of his face.

Dorja closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No matter what he said, the result would have been same. There was no way to save his own hide, not this time. Thrawn had his firing squad with him.

“I do.”

“Hmmm,” the blue alien mused aloud, “while the decision to retreat under concentrated heavy fire from the Rebel’s warships might have been considered an act of cowardice, your quick thinking saved the lives of your entire crew, for the hull breach was imminent.”

The Grand Admiral summarized his retelling of the events.

_Cowardice._

“I decided to have the ISD _Relentless_ fully repaired and refurbished, integrating it into the Seventh Fleet,” the icy blue alien said in a pure clinical tone, “Under your command, Captain Dorja.”

_Wait. What?!_

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Thrawn hadn’t called him to have him summarily executed for cowardice? By Captain Pellaeon of all the people?

“You heard correctly, Captain Dorja.”

Thrawn didn’t move, didn’t blink, the glowing red eyes giving him a look that could have burned him down with a deep gaze had the alien wished so. “There will have to be significant changes in the chain of command, of course, starting with your first officer.”

The red eyes shifted towards the woman at his left side, making him almost sight his relief the red gaze found a different target.

“I hereby appoint Commander Riza as your second-in-command.”

So, his direct superior officer would be an alien and his first officer would be a country woman? If there had been anything left of Konstantine’s body, he’d be rolling in his grave.

Dorja’s eyes flickered to the woman at the left side of the table. She had been standing there at attention, her face neutral the whole time, her lips pressed together into a thin line. It seemed that she had noticed his stare and gave him a curt nod in return.

“And Captain Slavin?” Dorja murmured, his brain still processing the unexpected development.

“I have other tasks in mind for a man of his talents,” Thrawn said frostily, his eyes narrowing.

Dorja gulped, whatever plans the blue alien had for him, it wouldn’t be pretty, there was no doubt about that.

“I…” Dorja was completely at loss for words. “Thank you, Admiral, I thought… After everything that had happened… After what I said...”

He wasn’t referring only to the battle of Atollon, and he knew the Grand Admiral must have known. Pellaeon would have told him, not that he had any choice on that matter.

“Your xenophobic chauvinism is no concern of mine, Captain Dorja,” Thrawn said in a tone that suggested that he had considered it completely unworthy of his attention, “I care about performance and results, and your performance at the Battle of Atollon was exemplary. I do not care about your petty bigotry. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Dorja croaked out.

Oh yes, Thrawn knew. Everything.

The Grand Admiral gave him a long, hard stare with his glowing eyes, making the hair on the back his neck stand up in horror.

“While I couldn’t care less what you think of me, Captain Dorja, I need all members of my senior staff working together as a team.”

The red eyes focused their attention on Pellaeon, the blue black eyebrows marring in a disapproving frown, and then back at Dorja.

“Captain Pellaeon, Captain Dorja, whatever personal antipathies you might still hold against each other, it _ends_ today. It is none of my business how you decide to cease the hostilities but the next time the two of you enter my office, there will be no sign of antipathy between the two of you. Understood, gentlemen?”

“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon acknowledged immediately, his face unreadable.

“Captain Dorja?”

The red eyes had a strange, hypnotizing effect.

“Yes, sir,” Dorja capitulated.

“Very good. Do not disappoint me, Captain.” Thrawn said, there was a trace of approval in his voice. “I trust you will have no problem working with Commander Riza?”

He probably would, but just like the mere seconds ago, there was only possible answer to that question.

“No, sir.”

“Commander?”

Thrawn put his hands down and turned his head in the direction of Commander Riza.

“No, sir,” she said softly, the very first words she had uttered during the whole exchange. She hadn’t appeared to be particularly enthusiastic about her transfer but she hadn’t appeared upset either.

“Excellent.” Thrawn nodded, giving all of them a long, pensive look. “You may go now. I will let all of you to find the common ground.”

They all saluted the Grand Admiral. Dorja spun on his heel and started for the door when he heard the Grand Admiral’s smooth, cultured voice behind him.

“Oh, and Captain, if I ever find out that your bigotry _is_ affecting your performance, I will have your carcass ejected with the next garbage load.”

* * *

 “Oh, look who mustered enough courage to enter the Krayt dragon’s den...” Came a voice from one of the tables at the far end of the officer’s lounge belonging to no one else than Freja Covell.

It had been well past the alpha shift, meaning the lounge would have been crowded with both junior and senior officers who wanted to blow off a little steam after a long and tiring day.

All those who had been within the heading distance turned their heads at the newcomers.

Or, to be more precise, at _him_.

There was a flash of recognition in the eyes of some, immediately followed by a frown or a smirk. They didn’t know him personally, but they knew _of_ him, they must have known he had been one of Admiral Konstantine’s senior staff. And that was enough. After all the events that had transpired between the Seventh Fleet and Konstantine, Dorja was pretty sure that Konstantine’s name had been used as an expletive on ISD _Chimaera_.

Dorja literally stepped right into a dragon’s den. _Kriff._

Captain Pellaeon cleared his throat, and suddenly all occupants of the room returned back to their to their previous conversations or to their drinks. Dorja had no idea how Pellaeon could have pulled it off with such a simple gesture but it appeared to have worked like a magic spell, just like one of the infamous Jedi mind tricks.

Dorja could only bit his lip and swallow his envy, for he knew he’d be never be able to pull such a trick as a Captain of the _Relentless_.

Still, there had been at least one person who didn’t fall for the magic spell, one that did not belong under the jurisdiction of a Naval Captain: Colonel Freja Covell.

It appeared that Dorja had not been the only one who received a promotion after the Battle of Atollon.

Neither Pellaeon nor Riza paid any attention to the challenge and proceeded with ordering drinks at the bar. Dorja simply shrugged and ordered the same of whatever they had, which turned out to be a Forvish ale.

Good. He needed something strong.

They all took their drinks, and with Captain Pellaeon in the lead, they crossed the wide room to Covell’s table, the Colonel gesturing his Army friends to disperse and make place for them.

“Captain Pellaeon, Commander Riza,” Covell gave them a polite nod, calling them by their ranks and last names even though he must have been on a first name basis with both of them. Well, if he wanted to stick to last names in front of him, it was fine with Dorja. There was no way he’d shake hands with them and let them call him by his first name anyway.

“Commander Dorja,” Covell added after a while, throwing Dorja off his balance briefly because he would have expected to be addressed by a last name only.

“It’s Captain Dorja, actually,” Dorja supplied, taking one of the offered seats, the one furthest away from the Colonel. Just in case.

Oh yeah, he had been promoted today after all. He had almost forgotten about it.

“Congratulations, I guess,” Covell eyed the choice of his seat with suspicion, shrugging, then giving Pellaeon and Riza an exasperated look. Pellaeon made simple hand gesture that suggested that he, too, found Dorja’s choice of seat cowardly, and Riza sat down without a word.

“I suppose should say the same to you,” Dorja countered, each word coming out unnaturally crisp as if it burned his tongue.

Funny, he’d have never thought that the first person to say congratulations would be Freja Covell, the man who beat him into a pulp after Dorja had insulted the Grand Admiral and the _Chimaera_ back when Dorja had been a mere lieutenant commander.

“ _I don’t take advice from an alien loving scum like you. You are a disgrace to the Empire. And your freshly baked Vice Admiral should be stripped of Imperial uniform and sent by first shuttle back to the mudwater world he comes from.”_

“ _He is a bastard child of the Viceroy Nute Gunray and his blue skinned Twi’lek whore.”_

“ _And what the hell is this supposed to be? A skull? A hand? Oh, don’t tell me that the Vice Admiral himself came up with that scribble. All the talk about art and all he can draw is a first grader finger painting--”_

Dorja cringed internally. That had been the trigger point, the moment when Pellaeon finally lost his composure and threw the first punch, following with Covell going all Wookiee berserk on him.

And he would never forget the time when the _Chimaera_ ’s strike team shot its way to the _Relentless_ ’s bridge during a surprise night drill on a rendezvous with the Grand Admiral’s flagship, blowing up the blast doors using real explosives, throwing fake thermal detonators to the crew pit, spraying most of the bridge crew with _blue_ paint, effectively marking them as ‘dead.’

Unfortunately, Dorja had not been one of those lucky crewmen who died a quick, painless death that night. He had ducked when he saw the thermal detonator, hiding behind the consoles that had protected him from the blue onslaught.

“ _Covell! Stop! You won! I apologize!”_ Dorja had cried out in desperation that night, crouched under the navigator’s console, once he recognized the face of the commander of the strike team.

“ _You need to apologize to the Chimaera first! She is beauty, she is grace, she will punch you in the face!”_

Admiral Konstantine and his personal suite had suffered a very similar fate; a thunderous explosion could have been heard even from the distance, meaning a much stronger explosive had to be used, spraying the entire suite with a blue paint.

It had not been an ordinary paint; no matter how hard they tried, none of the standard-issue detergents appeared to have worked on it, meaning they had to resort to repainting most of the main hallways and the whole bridge.

And Admiral Konstantine’s suite.

Moreover, the uniforms that had been sprayed with the blue paint had to be disposed of.

Dorja had no idea what exactly had followed in Admiral Konstantine’s suite; there was some sort of an accident, a whole series of bizarre accidents in fact, during which _all_ of Konstantine’s uniforms had been smeared with the blue paint, with the Admiral being reduced to wearing a loosely fitting uniform of a too-large size until the tailor made replacements had arrived.

Kassius Konstantine had been _furious_.

Dorja cringed internally once more.

Kassius Konstantine had been furious with _him_.

Covell narrowed his eyes at the tone and looked like he had been considering standing up and giving him a lesson on manners but Pellaeon cut him off with a gesture.

“The Admiral wants us to make peace with each other.”

That appeared to have worked on Covell; the man backed off immediately, the animosity disappearing in an instant. The Grand Admiral ordered to cease all hostilities, and just like that, as if he waved his hand like a Jedi, even the berserk guy would drop it and bury the war hatchet. Just how in the universe had the icy blue alien commanded such obedience? It couldn’t have been mere fear, the Dark Lord choked his men with the Force and still he never held such power over his subordinates. What else had been there?

Well, now the Wookiee had been tamed, he finally found the courage to tell what he wanted to say all along.

“The Admiral wanted the two of us to end the hostilities, he never said anything about Covell.”

“You really intend to keep going, Dorja?” Covell raised his chin in a challenge, putting his muscular arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

“Gentlemen.”

Commander Riza had apparently decided to step in and play the mediator, giving all of them a rather exasperated look. “If you would be willing to fill me into the secret?”

Pellaeon gave her an innocent shrug. “It’s a long story, Riza,” he sounded tired and old, much older than he was. He also had a fair share of gray hair on his head that couldn’t have been there only because of his age; it had to be the stress.

If Pellaeon had been going gray, then Dorja would soon become bald serving under the Grand Admiral.

“I might have said a few ill-considered words about the Admiral,” Dorja admitted, his cheeks reddening in shame.

How was he supposed to look the Grand Admiral in the eyes, … well, not in the eyes, … in the _face_ , when the alien had known all along what Dorja and his comrades had said about him in the past.

“Oh, he had found it rather entertaining,” Covell chirped. “He said that he has never heard anything like your highly imaginative theory behind his birth.”

“Covell,” Dorja hissed. The last thing he needed was to hear the Grand Admiral’s reaction.

“You asked for it,” Covell countered, giving him a sly wink.

“ _Fine_ ,” Dorja said with more force than necessary, swallowing all his pride, “I apologize.”

“Apology accepted, Captain Dorja,” Covell nodded slowly, his expression gravely serious.

He would really accept his apology? Just like that?

“He would.”

It must have been clearly written on his face for Commander Riza decided to step in again, dispersing the tense atmosphere between the two of them with her calm voice, giving both of them a warm smile.

“Colonel Covell is a kind man at heart, Captain Dorja. When he said he accepted your apology, he meant it.”

Covell snorted and rolled his eyes but didn’t comment on the matter, putting his arms back and crossing them around his chest. Dorja gave him a disbelieving frown but decided to drop it, it was not worth it.

He focused his attention on the female commander instead.

She was tall, almost as tall as him, in her late thirties or early forties probably, with dark brown eyes and medium length blonde hair clipped firmly in place as per regulations; she wore no make up either, or maybe just a little bit to cover up the faint wrinkles around her eyes, and she emanated a sense of calm confidence, enough to survive in a heavy male-oriented profession but not enough to pose a threat to their masculinity. There had been plenty such women in the Imperial Forces, never rising above the ranks of lieutenants. Women who succeeded climbing the ranks had been very different; hard, cold, calculating, difficult to approach in their hunger for power. They had to be more fierce, more ruthless than their male colleagues to make their way through. Especially if they originated from a backwater world. 

Riza had appeared to be the former and yet she held the rank of a commander. That didn’t make sense. He continued watching her, evaluating her, and when she took the raised the glass with her left hand he noticed a very peculiar thing. Something that didn’t fit with the image of a woman in an active service of the Empire at all.

“I am sorry, Commander,” Dorja blurted out, staring at the wedding band, “but I couldn’t but to notice the ring on your left ring-finger...”

“Dorja...” Covell scowled, his face hardening.

“What?” Dorja protested. “I am to be her commanding officer. I have a right to know if there is anything that could interfere with her duty!”

Covell looked like that the Grand Admiral or not, he had been about to take the glass and spill the content into Dorja’s face.

“That may be true,” Pellaeon conceded, “but you can’t ask people things like that out of the blue...”

Dorja gritted his teeth.

“Well, _you_ asked. And I am sure the Admiral asked as well...”

“You are wrong,” Riza said in a firm tone.

“Huh?” Dorja exclaimed. “How is that … the Admiral is _obsessed_ with information.”

Riza shook her head.

“Out of all my commanding officers, he’s only one who never asked.” She must have noticed his utter disbelief since she added: “Oh, he noticed the ring, he noticed it the very first time I handed him over a datapad back when I had been a mere lieutenant, but he never brought it up. He knows I have family since I blurted it out in front of him but he never asked why I remained in the active service.”

 _Wait a moment_.

“You’re married with _kids_?”

Dorja felt his jaw drop.

Covell palmed his face with both of his hands, letting out a high pitched sound.

“Just what in the blazes the Admiral _sees_ in you...”

“And you are correct, Captain, You have a right to know.” Riza took a deep sigh, looking him straight in the eyes. “I remained in the active service because I am paying for my family’s medical bills.”

Well, that was… _unexpected_.

Everybody had a reason why they joined the Empire. There were conscripts, New Order followers, people who believed they were doing the right thing,... and then there were people who joined the military because it had been expected of them. Like Dorja. All of Kontantine’s senior officers came from rich, very influential Core World families with a long tradition of military service.

“There is one of the extremely rare diseases that bacta cannot heal running in your family?”

Dorja couldn’t help himself, trying his best to ignore the disapproving frown from Pellaeon. And he certainly didn’t have the courage to look at Covell.

The bacta could have healed pretty much everything but severed limbs or an old age.

“It is not… a disease. Though it is hereditary.” Riza clarified, sadness clouded her features. “It is a form of progeria, premature aging disorder.”

Dorja suddenly put two and two together.

“You’re married,” he spluttered, “to a _clone_ trooper?”

Dorja risked a sideways glance at both Pellaeon and Covell who had been suddenly paying very serious attention to their drinks; judging from the lack of a shock on their faces both of them had been aware of her rather complicated family situation.

“I was. He died of an old age not long ago.”

Riza’s expression suddenly transformed into the face of a cold blooded killer. “I trust there is no problem with that?”

Dorja could recognize a trap when he saw one. He didn’t agree to settle an old dispute only to bring up a new one, especially with the person with whom he had to trust to have his back from now on.

“None at all, Commander.” Dorja said, he hoped not unsympathetically.

Commander Riza nodded, her face impassive. She might have been looking superficially subservient and docile but something told him that he had just dodged a blaster bolt. And he had no doubt Riza would be shooting like a girl, aiming at the head and the groin.

“I am sorry for prying, Commander,” he said finally and he meant it. He hoped that she had asked for an extended leave for the funeral. Pellaeon would have approved it, of course. However, if the Commander had spent all her allocated time before that, either she or Pellaeon would have had to come directly to the Grand Admiral to ask for an additional leave. Would the icy cold alien have approved it? Would he even care? Admiral Konstantine wouldn’t.

Riza shook her head. “It’s all right, Captain Dorja.”

“You have family, Dorja?” Covell asked abruptly, giving him a long, hard look.

“And you’re who, the ship’s number one gossip girl?” Dorja barked out more sharply than he had intended. And immediately he felt a stab of guilt for doing so.

“I am sorry Commander, that was a rather poor choice words on my part.”

Riza laughed, a sweet joyful laughter it was. “Oh, I think that’s a very fitting description of Colonel Covell, Captain.”

“Well,” Covell said sheepishly, his cheeks warming up, “I had to occupy my time somehow back when I did nothing but issue uniforms and take inventory.”

Then he flashed them all an evil smirk. “Nowadays it’s you star-gazers who sit in their comfy chairs drinking tea while the Army is doing all the hard work.”

A so very typical retort from an Army ground-pounder.

They all ignored it.

“No, I don’t…” Dorja admitted, answering the previous question about family, “though I would like to…”

They all fell silent for a while.

Riza might be wearing the wedding band with pride, daring anyone to comment on the matter, but the other two men might not be willing to share their tales with him. And Dorja, well, he came from an influential family, he never experienced such things like lack of money, and he was pretty sure that when his family clan felt that his position was high enough for him to get married, they would introduce him to a boring Coruscanti noble with a crush on men in uniform who would be more than happy to have a child and stay planetside, letting him live his life as a captain of a Star Destroyer.

“I am really sorry, it’s just…”

Dorja fell silent for a while, thinking hard about what to say next.

“Whatever comes from my mouth is different than I had intended to. Serving under Konstantine hasn’t been easy, you know. I am trying.” 

_You guys have no idea how hard I am trying._

“Forget it, this will be the shortest captaincy ever...” Dorja whimpered, feeling that he shouldn’t have get rid of his rank plates just yet.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Pellaeon said thoughtfully, stroking his mustache. “If the Admiral can stomach General Bittenfeld...”

“Who?”

“The Seventh Fleet’s flagship General,” Covell supplied, the corner of his mouth quirked up, “You’ve never heard of him?”

“Uh,” the name seemed familiar somehow but he couldn’t place it with any general in particular, “I don’t think so.”

“Well… How should I put it...” Pellaeon seemed lost for words.

“It’s like…” Riza mused aloud.

“Matter and antimatter?” Covell suggested, exchanging a perplexed look with his colleagues.

“The two types of personalities that simply don’t mix,” Commander Riza finished for them.

“Exactly.”

Pellaeon and Covell said in unison.

Dorja’s both eyebrows shot up in surprise. Just what in the blazes was wrong with this ship?

“The Admiral can’t stand him?” Dorja pondered.

“Is that the reason why Thrawn had been leading the ground assault on Atollon?”

Funny, he would have thought that the Grand Admiral would have been above such lowly things like holding a petty grudge against an army general.

“No. That was different, a personal favor if you will. Anyway, General Bittenfeld was there, in one of the AT-ATs.”

The tone of Covell’s voice suggested he should leave the matter be; something happened on the surface, an unexpected meteorological complication that had caused destruction of the Imperial heavy artillery as well as several Rebels’ ships. It was still a major victory for the Empire, but it seemed that the Seventh Fleet had been used to being more thorough.

“In any case, it’s not that the Admiral can’t stand him.” Covell shook his head. “It’s more like...”

“He is the only person the Admiral ever gave up on,” Pellaeon concluded.

“What do you mean?” Dorja leaned forward, his curiosity getting better of him.

“Well, Pellaeon started with a shrug, “the Admiral makes all his senior staff listen to never ending lectures about art and its significance on warfare...”

“There is no way you can avoid that, by the way,” Covell howled in pain.

“All his senior staff but Bittenfeld...” Riza explained, her whole face lit up with amusement.

“He fell dead asleep. _Snoring_. And when the former captain gently tugged him to wake up he yawned.”

Dorja couldn’t believe his ears.

“He didn’t.”

“He did.” Pellaeon and Covell affirmed, nodding their heads at the same time.

“How come Thrawn hadn’t strangled him with his bare hands?”

Dorja heard from Captain Slavin about the Grand Admiral’s brief loss of control after Slavin insulted a piece of Twi’lek artwork. He had almost killed Slavin on the spot, how come that he let this General to get away with such open insubordination.

“Yeah, we all were frozen with shock, too.” Covell grunted, “No, Thrawn simply… sighed and said ‘I see.’ in his usual tone of voice. And from that moment he never included General Bittenfeld in his seminars again. He gave up on him. That chair still remains empty and no one dares to sit on it.”

_The Freak Fleet. What a fitting nickname._

“If you value your life, Captain, do not sit in that chair,” Commander Riza warned him, her tone deadly serious. “I will show you which one it is.”

“Now you see, Dorja, if the Admiral can stomach General Bittenfeld...” Covell flashed him a lopsided grin.

“Do your job and you’ll get along just fine.” Pellaeon pressed his lips together and stroked his mustache.

Dorja cupped his face in his hands, sagging deep down into his chair. He was just a man who happened to serve under Admiral Konstantine. What did he do wrong? What sort of higher power had he offended that when he had been finally given command, it would be a ship belonging to the Freak Fleet?

“You know,” Covell said to no one else in the particular, “I‘m the one stuck in the middle of the two worlds. The promotion to Bittenfeld’s second-in-command places me in a rather delicate position.”

Covell sighed. “I just hope I won’t be the one to trigger the matter anti-matter reaction.”

They all fell silent for a while.

“Speaking of the gundark,...” Covell murmured under his breath, looking at the direction of the door, his eyes widening in a shock.

“Covell!” A deep, angry voice roared behind him, making Dorja flinch instinctively.

“Get your fat lazy ass off the couch! I said I wanted your evaluation of the Death Troopers’s performance on Atollon and I swear if it’s not done by tomorrow I’m gonna throw your useless carcass across the room the next practice session!”

Dorja turned his head toward the newcomer, his eyebrows rising his surprise. Coming to them in long swing strides was a tall, bulky man with light brown eyes, ginger, longish hair and a narrow face that seemed somehow out of balance with his body’s firm build. His combative demeanor could be seen in his furrowed brows and the fierce gleam of his eyes.

And his gray army uniform carried the insignia of a general.

“I am working on it, sir!” Covell shot up from his seat to full attention, almost knocking the table over, with Pellaeon and Riza quickly steadying the table with their hands.

“You call this work?!” The gundark, for it had been an apt comparison, raised his muscular arm, pointing a finger on him accusingly.

“No, sir.”

Dorja tried to hide his smirk behind the glass, taking a deep sip from his Forvish ale, savoring its bitter taste on his tongue. Seeing the former Quartermaster being yelled down like a fresh recruit by a drill sergeant was completely worth everything he had ever gone through because of him.

Oh yeah, this was _so_ worth watching the Wookiee squirm.

“And who is this spineless barve?!” The gundark spat each word like venom, eyeing Dorja with a growing suspicion; Dorja’s smirk must not have gotten unnoticed.

_Shavit. I am so dead. He is going to tear me apart with his bare hands._

“Captain Dorja of the _Relentless_ ,” came a smooth, cultured voice of Grand Admiral Thrawn, “the newest addition to the Seventh Fleet.”

The tall, icy blue alien calmly walked across the officer’s lounge to their table, ignoring the stares and curious glances pointed at his direction. Dorja couldn’t have known it for sure, of course, but he would have bet his promotion bonus that it was not in the Grand Admiral’s nature to come here and chit chat with his subordinates over a glass of alcohol.

The General gave out a whistle.

“One of Konstantine’s army of Gungans? Trust the number-one fanboy of Jar Jar Binks to screw up even the easiest task in the universe!”

“Your diplomatic skills leave much to be desired, General,” The Grand Admiral said calmly but didn’t contradict him. _Kriff_ , the red-eyed alien must have agreed with the General’s assessment of Konstantine’s abilities, only he had been too polite to voice his opinion aloud.

“There is a tradition in Bittenfeld family! When you praise someone, do it loudly, when you denounce someone do it even louder!” The gundark thundered, spreading his arms wide. “I am only observing that tradition!”

The Grand Admiral nodded, choosing not to comment on the gundark’s utter lack of manners or etiquette. General Bittenfeld gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘uncultured.’

“This spineless nerf won’t last a week!” The General roared in laughter, his huge body shaking.

“It is possible,” the Grand Admiral nodded, his voice calm, his expression cold and distant, his whole posture intimidating. “However, the final decision whether he does or does not live until the end of the week lies with me, General.”

Thrawn didn’t need to raise is voice to make his challenge heard to everyone within a hearing distance.

Dorja swallowed his drink, feeling the liquid to burn its way down his esophagus.

Has Thrawn just very publicly marked him as his own territory? Declaring to everyone within the hearing distance (and by extension of the rumor mill, to the whole Seventh Fleet) that it would be him, not the General, not anyone _else_ , who had the right to discipline him, and that it would be Thrawn who would make a swift work of anyone who dared so as much as insult him.

Dorja’s cheeks burned in mortal embarrassment.

Thrawn had commanded his loyalty. Thrawn had _earned_ his loyalty.

The tall blue alien and the gundark did not pay any attention to him, both of them crossing their arms, straightening their backs to their full heights, locking their gazes in some kind of silent battle of wills. And yet it had been a mere mock battle. There was no tension in their postures, no expression of a hurt pride, no clenched teeth or dangerous gleam in their eyes.

They were two masters in their chosen fields, fully aware of their own strengths and weaknesses, having a mutual respect for each other despite all their personal differences. Really, they couldn’t have been possibly more different; the Grand Admiral, a solid, calm, composed, his face carved from stone, his voice smooth and cultured. He would be patiently waiting for his opening, always playing the long game, letting his enemies make a first move.

The General, an unchained, wild, passionate and brutally honest man whose every expression had been clearly written on his face, his voice rough and full of emotion, with attention span of a red-headed Wookiee on Spice, Bittenfeld would never wait for an opening, he would have created it himself, making a forceful breakthrough.

The relationship between Navy and Army was delicate in every Imperial Fleet, but the Freak Fleet took it to a whole different level. And yet, it was obvious even to a blind man what had been the result of the mock battle. Thrawn did not need to held the rank of a “Grand” to hold the reins of this wild beast. 

Thrawn might prefer a cold, calculated approach but there were times when such tactics were not applicable. When every commander had no choice but to resort to an overwhelming, brutal force of sheer destruction. And this was exactly why he kept Bittenfeld around.

And this was exactly why Thrawn had to don on the full battle gear and come down to Atollon himself. If he truly wanted the Rebel’s heads on the force pikes he would have sent Bittenfeld.

It seemed that the mock battle of wills ended, with the gundark breaking into a thunderous laughter, a sudden mischievous spark in the glowing red eyes on that icy blue face. Dorja watched it with a morbid fascination.

And then, it couldn’t have been a mere flash, it couldn’t have lasted for more than a fraction of a second, while the gundark had almost doubled over in laughter, a small smirk marred the icy blue lips.

Dorja’s eyes widened in surprise.

Or maybe Dorja got it all wrong and Thrawn decided to come down to Atollon because he had wanted to be the one who would put the Rebel’s heads on the force pikes. For below that cold, calculating facade, there had been lurking the same kind of beast that the General had in himself. Only the icy blue alien was much better at suppressing it, burying it deep enough that it would emerge on the surface only under rare circumstances.

Or maybe Thrawn had planned this all along, either with or without his senior staff as his acolytes. More likely without. Maybe he had let that smirk cross his lips for a very different reason, such as predicting everyone’s reactions, correctly assuming he had to come down to the officer’s lounge himself to stop Dorja from making himself a laughingstock in front of the Seventh Fleet.

_In any case, I am so screwed._

“Captain Dorja, Commander Riza,” the Grand Admiral shifted his red glowing gaze on them, his expression purely professional, his tone full of commanding authority, “report to the sickbay immediately and meet me in the Holosimulation Training Room Three as soon as you are cleared for duty. I am interested to see how well you can perform against an unbeatable scenario.”

“An unbeatable scenario?”

Dorja blurted out in confusion after both giants had left.

Covell snorted. “Any battle simulation against the Admiral is a no win situation.” 

Dorja’s eyes widened.

“You mean that _he_ is going to be playing against us? Not have us fight against each other under unfavorable conditions?”

Admiral Konstantine never participated in battle simulations against his subordinates, or even against his equals if there had been a grain of truth on the rumor mill.

Covell barked out a laugh and Pellaeon looked like he had a hard time keeping his sabbac face as well.

“Prepare your tissues, Dorja,” Covell cackled at him but there was none of the animosity that had been there in the beginning.

Dorja’s eyes flickered over to Commander Riza who took a one last deep sip from her glass.

“Well, we had bettter not keep the Admiral waiting long, Captain,” she said in a grave tone, putting behind her ear a single blond lock that got untangled from her clip, getting up.

Dorja decided to follow her lead and finished the Forvish ale before he finally stood up and gave the remaining two men his best salute who returned it with all seriousness. Even though he’d probably never count Pellaeon and Covell among his friends, they have been soldiers who understood what it meant to enter a battle that they had a no chance of winning.

If this all had been a test of character, he would pass it with a flying colors. He wouldn’t back down, not this time.

As he walked away side by side with Commander Riza, he noticed many curious glances directed at him, however, there was none of the hostility that had been there as when he had entered the officer’s lounge.

“We’re going to have our asses kicked really bad, aren’t we?” Dorja whispered once they entered the escalator and the door closed behind them, his expression getting grim.

“We are,” Commander Riza confirmed his suspicions, giving him a curt nod. “Don’t worry Captain, the last thing I’m going to do is to start crying on you.”

“Oh, I know you won’t.”

Dorja shook his head, taking a deep breath, making a calculated risk. “But I’m afraid I will,” he said lightly, the corners of his lips twitching, eventually breaking into an honest laughter. It had been just the two of them in the escalator, and while technically she might have been his subordinate from now on, the propriety be damned.

Commander Riza looked at him with a surprise, her dark brown eyes widening, and she started laughing as well, a sweet joyful sound, exactly at the moment the door opened and the lift reached its destination, making the chief medical specialist no doubt wonder if they needed something more than a mere alcohol antidote.

Well, this was the Freak Fleet, they were all mad as mynocks here. Who could blame Dorja for finally snapping and joining the club?

 

**THE END**

Disclaimer:

General Bittenfeld is based on Admiral Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld from the Legend of the Galactic Heroes (Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu). A BAMF with the balls from durasteel, so brutally honest and uncultured that having him meet Thrawn makes for an epic clash of fates. My partner in crime No #1, ImperialGirl, summed it up nicely, the only culture in Bittenfeld resides in his intestines. (He fell asleep during the play Kaiser Reinhard had forced him to attend, later complaining there had been no fist fight at the classical ballet performance). 

For those who never saw LOGH, here is a little bit of original Bittenfeld:


End file.
